


mixed metaphors

by ripinpieces



Series: "mixed metaphors" verse [1]
Category: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Everyone Lives/Nobody Dies, Alternate Universe - Teachers, F/F, F/M, Fuck Canon My City Now, M/M, Office Comedy, Tags May Change, The Magnus Institute but make it a British sixth form college
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-01-30
Updated: 2021-02-24
Packaged: 2021-03-16 17:20:23
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 11,139
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29086005
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ripinpieces/pseuds/ripinpieces
Summary: Jonathan Sims never expected to teach - never even particularly wanted to - but here he is, teaching English Literature at the Magnus Institute of Education to a bunch of 16 year olds, and dealing with the rest of the oddball teachers; Timothy Stoker, teaching history by climbing onto desks with a wooden sword; Sasha James, part-time Computer Science teacher and part time unpaid therapist for all the many dramas in this school; and Elias Bouchard, also not-so-affectionately known as "The Demon Headmaster", who is heard most often through Rosie, his perky and gossipy assistant. And if the cast of characters he works with isn't exhausting enough, there's the students too.He'll be surprised if he lasts a month.
Relationships: Elias Bouchard/Peter Lukas, Eventually - Relationship, Georgie Barker/Melanie King, Jonathan "Jon" Sims | The Archivist/Tim Stoker, Martin Blackwood/Jonathan "Jon" Sims | The Archivist/Tim Stoker, Martin Blackwood/Tim Stoker, Sasha James/Not!Sasha, it'll make sense when we get there, little bits of - Relationship, this is gonna be a long one folks sorry
Series: "mixed metaphors" verse [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2133984
Comments: 15
Kudos: 59





	1. Jon

**Author's Note:**

> This idea has been rattling around in my brain for about a week, and honestly it's the first thing I've actually written in about two years. We're getting closer to the assuredly tragic end of canon Magnus, and my brain refuses to acknowledge it. So here, have a fluffy dumbass office comedy where no one dies and there's no monsters apart from maybe Elias.  
> Buckle your seatbelts, kiddos, this is gonna be a long one.  
> Thank you to Alex for being my wonderful editor, and the discord for being my eternal hypemen.

Jonathan Sims had never been good with kids. Even as a child himself, he preferred sitting to the side whilst the other kids ran around the astroturf playground, playing Bulldog or Red Rover or whatever they were calling it these days. Some kid tried to tag him once and he screamed, so even if he did want to play, he was pretty sure none of the other children would let him. And he was fine with that; he was fine sitting on the bench, reading a book, alone. He was.

And then kids grew into teens and started growing brains, and suddenly they weren’t just running around like lunatics. They were whispering and giggling, and very occasionally asking him inane questions, the answers of which seemed oh-so-funny to them. He was still the same, a kid who spent his free time in books his grandmother gave him, but it was then he learnt to talk, to fire back a comment in the most bored and spiteful tone he could muster. Suffice to say, he didn’t really make many friends in his youth.

So when Georgie had initially suggested taking a job at their local college whilst he worked on his PhD application (for the fifth year running), he snorted into his tea.

“Come on, Jon, I’m being serious.” Georgie frowns from the sofa, wedged in the corner whilst the Admiral stretches out over the rest of the space. “You need a decent job.”

Jon raises an eyebrow, still half thinking that she’s messing with him. “What, like ‘barista’?”

“Hey, it’s a good job! I can work around the podcast, my boss and co-workers are lovely, and most importantly, I get _paid._ ” Georgie raises an eyebrow right back at him, a challenge. One Jon knows he’ll lose.

He sighs, rubs the bridge of his nose. Georgie tends to get very “mum friend” on him, and whilst he knows she’s right, it doesn’t get any less frustrating. That’s probably why they broke up. “I _have_ a job.”

“If you can tell me what exactly that job title is besides ‘temp’, I’ll let this go.”

Jon opens his mouth to respond…then closes it again. “Um…It’s- it’s complicated.”

“So you don’t know.”

“I do! It’s-…I answer a lot of emails, and-“

“ _Jon_.”

Jon gives her a look that to anyone else would be withering. Fortunately, Georgie went through two exam seasons and about twenty hangovers with him, so she just responds with a grin. The Admiral finally deigns to roll over and hop down from the sofa, and Georgie shifts, sprawling her legs across the cushions with a contented sigh.

“Listen, you don’t have to do it forever. But it’s a well-paid job, talking about a subject you—well, you might not love it right now, but you’ve studied it for years. Sasha can get you in the door, too, it wouldn’t even be hard.” Georgie takes a little sip of her peppermint tea, eyes still on Jon. He drops his own gaze, watching the steam rise up from his own mug.

“Just…consider it. Alright?”

Jon met Georgie in October at his first year of university. She was drinking wine out of a thermos and reading Beowulf at the desk next to him in the library, and they got into a whispered argument about the ethics of drinking said wine in the library before she offered him some. She’d been the one to drag him out of the library at 11pm instead of letting the disgruntled staff lock him in. And she’d managed to take him to her flat party after. It was the first time Jon remembers being able to…relax around other people, to feel like he wasn’t constantly being watched and judged and laughed at. And, whilst the university punk band was certainly an embarrassing phase of his youth, it was still just as fun.

The point to this little train of thought being, his brain interjected, that Georgie had never steered him wrong yet.

“Fine. I’ll think about it.” Jon grumbles, just as the Admiral hops up onto his lap. The cat curls up into a fat, fuzzy grey mound, tail swishing and tickling Jon’s nose.

A decisive nod from Georgie, and then she’s fumbling with the TV remote. “Alright, what are we thinking – cheesy horror or cheesy romcom?”

She answers herself before Jon can even finish swallowing his tea. “Nah, cheesy romcom. I think we need a little happiness right now.”

* * *

And so that’s how Jon ended up here; in an oddly spongey chair, sitting in front of an oak desk skirting the line of gaudy, watching a man with icy grey eyes and a receding blonde hairline flick through his CV.

God, what is he doing. Not just because he’s woefully unqualified for this, and frankly teenagers have always made him feel particularly uneasy, even at the age where they’re technically adults. But this man in front of him has the oddest energy that Jon’s ever felt. Walking into the room felt like walking into the lion’s enclosure at the zoo with a slab of meat the size of your arm; he’d felt watched, almost stalked, could feel the hunger in invisible gaze boring into the back of his skull. The hairs on his arms prickled, a wave of goosebumps following in their wake.

The man himself – “Elias Bouchard”, by the name on his desk plaque – has been nothing but nice and polite to him, if a little smarmy. All very courteous and professional. But his eyes don’t particularly match his face – a carving icicle of steely grey jutting out amidst the pallid, aging skin. And the fact that he sits perched on the edge of a tall, leather desk chair, like he could pounce over the desk any minute. That really can’t be comfortable.

Elias sets the thin booklet down, smoothing one hand over the cover letter he barely glanced at. “So, Mister Sims. Or would you prefer Jonathan?”

No one’s called him Jonathan since his grandmother passed. “Jon, please.”

Elias raises an eyebrow, but doesn’t seem surprised. “Jon, then. Why do you want this job?”

For the money, and so his ex-girlfriend/stand-in mother will get off his back. God, he wishes he could actually say that without repercussions. Jon shifts a little in his chair, wrings his hands in his lap. “Well, I…I’m actually attempting to apply for PhD funding, but my mind has been rather…unhelpful, as of late. I figured that, if there was anything that was going to change my perspective on literature, it would be guiding newer students through the basics. A-and it’s an opportunity to talk about my specialist subject all day.”

He manages to pull out his customer service smile, as fake as it is. With delicate hands tucked under his chin, Elias smiles back, but not with a reflection of his own – a knowing smile, like he can tell how much of a lie that entire spiel was. It takes him a few moments to lean back in his chair, and a few moments more for the tension to leak from Jon’s shoulders.

“Excellent. Now, of course, you’ll have some rather large shoes to fill. Miss Robinson wouldn’t win any popularity contests, of course, but she was _excellent_ at her job.” Elias levels Jon with that gaze again. Is he seeing things, or was that a little smirk? “Of course, I’m sure you’ll be fine. You’re an Oxford graduate.”

It feels like he’s being…mocked, almost. Elias sounds ridiculously posh, like he was spat out the womb and straight into Eton, so his tone naturally makes Jon’s skin crawl. But there’s no mocking element to it – only that frustrating, level politeness. And yet Jon’s back in high school again; hearing the whispers through the library shelves, the giggles sharp enough to cut.

It’s only now Jon realises his customer service smile has faltered. “Ah, y-yes, well. I think I will do just fine.”

A lot happens in the next few seconds. Elias straightens up, leans forward to pounce- no, to get out of his chair, Jon, what are you doing  _ flinching _ at that like a scared kitten, god you’re useless- and there’s a knock at the door. They both freeze, because one of these three things is new and unexpected by either of them.

The person behind the door doesn’t wait for permission to enter; it swings open with one simple push, and in he walks.

He’s tall enough that his hair brushes the doorframe as he steps through, the black strands catching the wood before flicking free. His shirt stretches tight across broad, sinewy shoulders, and the shirt sleeves are rolled up hastily to the crook of his elbows, exposing strong forearms and the hinted black lines of a tattoo. He’s clean-shaven, jawline sharp until it’s softened by an effortless, charming smile, too full of life for the cold aura of this room.

God, this man wouldn’t look out of place in a bloody Abercrombie ad. What the hell is he doing in a place like this?

“Alright boss—Oh.” The stranger stops in his tracks, eyes flicking over to Jon. They’re brown. No, not brown, kind of a hazel, with little flecks of honeyed gold—nevermind. “You didn’t tell me we’ve got fresh meat. Not keeping them all to yourself, are you?”

Elias’ smile has gone, replaced by a grim line and the cut of a sharp eyebrow, but at least that suffocating aura has faded. The stranger just seems to bring sunshine into the room, blinding all those invisible eyes and finally giving Jon room to breathe.

“Ah. Mister Stoker. I wasn’t expecting you.” He pointedly checks his watch. “Just an interview for Miss Robinson’s old position. Can I help you?”

Mister Stoker doesn’t wither under that icy gaze at all. In fact, he seems to bloom; a bright, cheeky smile, wide enough to expose the dimples on his cheeks. Christ. “Ah, don’t be so formal.” Jon blinks as a hand is thrust in his direction, a black beaded bracelet wrapped snugly around the wrist. “I’m Tim, history teacher and local nuisance. Nice to meet you.”

Jon blinks owlishly, and then gingerly takes that hand in what he hopes is a firm shake. “Ah, Jon. Jonathan Sims.”

Tim’s hands are warm and so is his smile, and seriously, this is getting ridiculous. It’s like the universe is forcing him into the “damsel in distress” role, with the roguishly handsome prince to boot. Jon gives him a fleeting smile, the best he can manage under all this attention, but he seems satisfied enough to let go. “Jon, nice. We haven’t had a Jon around here in a while, not since Gillespie.”

“That was Joshua Gillespie, Mister Stoker.” And suddenly Jon’s aware of Elias’s wintery presence in the room again. His fingers are steepled, elbows resting on the oak of the desk, looking so much the villain that it’s almost comical. “Now, are you going to tell me what you needed, or did you want me to guess?”

“Oh, that’d be fun. Go on. I’ll give you hints if you get stuck.”

“Not the wisest use of your time, is it?”

“Eh, it’s lunch and I’m not hungry. Could hang out in here for the whole half hour, if you like. I’ve been told I make great company.”

It’s like watching a tennis match. There’s a moment of tense quiet, Tim and Elias staring each other down like duelists at dawn, wondering who will shoot to the sky first. But there’s no breaking the ice of Elias’s gaze; it’s Tim that yields first, just as Jon opens his mouth to break the silence.

“It’s about the Dartmoor kid. Sasha wanted to have a word before the end of the day, but she’s got the dentist from now ‘til 2, so—”

“You’ve been reduced to messenger boy? I see.” And then the thin line of Elias’ lips twitches up into a smirk, and Jon feels a prickle of annoyance climb along his spine. “I’ll handle it, don’t worry. Now, if you’re quite finished, I was going to show Mister Sims here around—”

And just like that, the mischievous spark returns to Tim’s eyes like it never faded. “Ah, don’t worry about that, boss. I’ll give him the grand tour, make sure no one scares him off. You don’t mind, do you Jon?”

They both speak at the same time; Elias stating that “that won’t be necessary” while Jon leaps at the chance to get out of this conversation.

“N-no, I wouldn’t mind at all.”

If it’s possible, Tim’s smile grows even wider. He has a conspirator now. And by the sharp prickling on the back of Jon’s neck, Elias is thinking exactly the same thing. The headmaster frowns, hands lowering and folding together on the desk in front of him. Despite the surprise, he looks perfectly composed, as though this is what he had planned the whole time.

“Well. It seems the matter is settled. Though, Mister Stoker, I would appreciate it if you’d kindly return Jon here afterwards.”

“Will do, boss.” Tim throws in a little salute, two fingers flicked from his forehead. If he did that in actual naval command, he’d be scrubbing the decks for weeks; there’s no respect behind it in the slightest. But there’s still that gap between him and the desk, a metre of space he dare not cross – still that faint fear.

And then Jon realises he’s being talked to.

“Jon, yeah? C’mon, we’ll grab a coffee on the way.”

Jon blinks out of his analysis daydreams and clears his throat, smoothing down the front of his slightly loose jumper as he stands. “Yes, right. Lead on, I suppose.”

You don’t have to tell Tim twice, apparently; in two long strides he’s opening up the door, stepping to one side and gesturing for Jon to go first which…definitely fits the category of roguishly handsome Disney prince this man seems so intent on fulfilling. But despite something primal in the back of his mind screaming to leave the room as fast as possible, he hesitates. This is his new boss, after all, should he really be…escaping like this? He glances back to Elias.

And just like that, there’s that awful smile. A wolf, slathering over its next meal. But Elias gestures forward with one delicate hand, silver ring glinting in the light. “Go, honestly. I won’t mind.”

It only occurs to Jon afterwards, when the door closes behind him, that he was asking permission.

* * *

Back in the corridor, the silent vacuum of Elias’ office is shut out, and the sounds of the rest of the college filters in. Jon can hear the reluctant whirr of the coffee machine down the hall, the laughter of students drifting up from the canteen and, much closer to him, Tim’s voice.

“Poor you, getting an interview with the Demon Headmaster. Usually he lets Rosie handle it, but I guess he was feeling particularly vicious today.” Tim breathes a laugh, and somehow seems more relaxed – god knows how, because with his top button undone and his tie loose it’s increasingly obvious that he doesn’t have a serious bone in his body. “Right. It was English Lit you were interviewing for, yeah? Lucky. It’s _ridiculously_ cosy down there.”

Jon’s brow furrows, and he does his best to keep up with how fast Tim switches topics. “Um. Y-yes, yes it was. I’ve never heard an academic department described as “cosy” before.”

Tim’s starting off down the corridor, and Jon has no choice but to fall into step beside him – despite the fact that Tim has a much longer stride than him, and Jon’s almost jogging to keep up.

“Yeah, well,” Tim says, seemingly oblivious to his struggle, “you lot read for a living. You might as well be comfy whilst you’re doing it, yeah?

“Well, it’s not just reading, it’s deeper than that—” And Jon has to pause at that, because Tim’s turning down a right-hand corridor. Well, at least he has the decency to wait this time, but there’s that glint of mischief in his eye again. Jon resists the urge to grumble and follows.

“Anyway. It’s more like…it’s trying to truly understand the author. That’s why you look at background context, word choices, all those little details others think inconsequential. The writing alone is good, but the story of the writing makes it- makes it… better, almost. It’s the closest you get to truly understanding another person, even if you’re decades or centuries apart.”

He looks up to find Tim watching him…there’s no polite way to say it, ramble. But he doesn’t seem off-put by it, more…amused. Like Jon is a novelty he hasn’t come across yet; like a butterfly caught in a spotlight. And this close he can see that honeyed hazel of his eyes, the sparkles catching the hints of topaz in his eyes and lighting them up like the sun.

Jon adjusts his glasses and pretends to be _very_ interested in the view out of the window all of a sudden.

Tim hums, like he’s considering something, and Jon can hear the smile in his voice when he finally speaks. “I think you’re going to fit in here just fine, Mister Sims.”


	2. Tim

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> First off, thank you guys so much for all the love and encouragement on the first chapter! It's so nice to see people get excited for my newest little brainworm. And this chapter is MUCH longer, half because I wanted to thank you all and half because there was just so much STUFF i wanted to cram into it. Hope you're excited to meet some more characters!  
> As always, thanks to my TMA discord server and Alex, my wonderful friend who I've been abusing as an editor.

“Okay, Elias can’t be  _ that _ scary. Right?”

Tim gives Martin a look that hopefully gets across just how wrong that comment is. “Martin, for that alone, I’m bringing you to the Christmas Party. He gets even worse if Lukas isn’t there.”

Martin swirls the oat milk around its little beaker, brows furrowed in intense concentration. Tim would’ve never believed how hard it is to make decent coffee if he hadn’t met Martin. First off, you’ve got to have access to an espresso maker at the very least, with a steam arm. And then you have to use the steam arm for different amounts of time for different coffees, and god forbid you order a flat white with anything but normal milk in, because the other milks just don’t froth well enough to do the pattern and—well, it was at that point Tim usually stopped listening, but rest assured it was  _ hard _ . And yet, Martin still manages to pour it in such a way that Tim’s latte has a cute little tulip on it every time.

Martin beams, freckled cheeks all round and pink from the heat of the steam, and Tim can’t help smiling.

“Um, which one’s Lukas again? The…film teacher?” He slips out from behind the counter, cup perfectly balanced on its saucer, and follows Tim over to his usual table.

“Nono, that’s Logorio.” Tim flops into one of the armchairs with a sigh, wriggles a little to get comfortable. A moment later he tosses his legs over one arm of the chair like the chaotic bisexual he is. Martin won’t mind; Tim basically lives here anyway, might as well act like it. “Lukas is the on-again, off-again husband.”

“How do you be in an on-and-off relationship when you’re married?” Martin sets the coffee down, then hesitates. Tim rolls his eyes, and nudges the little spare stool out from under the table. Martin’s boss is in the back and there’s no one in at three in the afternoon anyway. 

“If you sit down, I’ll explain.”

Martin sighs. “Tim, I’m working—”

“In an empty shop. C’mon, Martin, you can just hop up if someone comes in. Besides,” and Tim pulls out the big guns, leaning forward and batting those long eyelashes at Martin. “I’ve missed you.”

Martin, unfortunately, can’t resist the Stoker Charm. He smiles a little, bashfully, and then takes a seat, knees resting on his elbows. He takes the tiny free biscuit from Tim’s plate, and Tim doesn’t protest. “Fine. But if Oliver comes back and tells me off, I’m blaming you.”

“You blame me for most things.” Tim grins, draping one arm across the back of his chair. “But yeah, they’re…something. I’m pretty sure they have, like, separate houses? And if they get mad enough, Lukas moves out or something. They’ve filed for divorce about four times, but never gone through with it.”

Martin’s eyebrows disappear behind the auburn curls of his fringe. “Jesus.”

Tim grins, which really shouldn’t be how he reacts to drama. “Yeah. God knows how they’re still together. Maybe they’ve both got scarily good prenups.”

Martin hums, nibbles on the small scrap of shortbread. They’ve had this odd little friendship since Tim took up his position at Magnus. At his old school, Tim left to get his lunch from somewhere other than the canteen, but always ended up watching Netflix in the park with a Sainsburys meal deal or something; underwhelmed and uncaffeinated. But then Tim found Death Before Decaf and, more importantly, Martin Blackwood.

Martin is the human equivalent of Tim putting on one of his old sweaters from back before he lost weight; big (he’s one of the few people taller than Tim), warm and comforting. He’s got those watery blue eyes, the ones you see on kittens that make you want to squeal, and a shock of auburn curls whipped into shape by what could only be a whirlwind. And even over the counter, his customer service smile seems more honest than the others, like he was genuinely interested when he asked whether Tim was having a good day. It didn’t take long for Martin to start treating him like a friend rather than a customer – though it was certainly helped by Tim buying two coffees (one for him and one for Martin) every time he came in.

So what if they stumbled home together after the café’s poetry nights and slept together? Tim didn’t mind; Martin was good company and had soft lips that tasted like spearmint. And after Martin got over the initial awkward fumbling and blushing phase afterwards, it kind of became a standing arrangement. It’s odd to be sleeping with someone semi-regularly but also be their wingman on nights out, but that’s half of the friendships that Tim has had since uni. And he certainly isn’t complaining.

“Anyway. How’s the new teacher, um…Jon, was it?” Martin’s head tilts and, god, if he looked any more like an overgrown puppy he’d be at risk of being adopted.

“He’s, uh.” Tim pauses, picks up his coffee cup from the table. In all honesty, it was hard to pin down his thoughts on Jon Sims. He was attractive, of course, but in that academic “I haven’t slept in a week” way – shaggy black hair that clearly hadn’t been cut in months, with slivers of grey running through it like spiderwebs, bags under his eyes stark against the startling green of his eyes, shoulders so hunched that it probably took a good few inches off his height. He was a mirror into the future of half the students constantly camped out in the school’s library; exhausted, but would work himself to the bone for his passions. He’d gotten that all in the half hour they were walking around the campus. Well, that and he wasn’t exactly open. Tim could talk the hind leg off a donkey, but Jon tended to respond to each of his questions with something a little sarcastic or overbearingly intelligent. The closest he’d gotten to finding out who Jonathan Sims actually was was when he was explaining why he studied literature. When Jon talked about being someone else, he did so with a yearning. The passion in his eyes shone like the embers of a far off campfire, one that Tim found himself desperate to reach. He’s always been a sucker for the passionate ones.

“…He’s…?”

Oh, god, he’d totally forgotten he was being asked a question. Tim jerks himself out of his thoughts, takes a sip of his drink before answering. “He’s fine. Doesn’t really seem like the teacher type, though. He’ll either make the kids lives hard as fuck or be out of here in a month.” A pause, sand then he glances at Martin with the beginnings of a little smirk.

“Cute though.”

Martin groans, hides his (probably flushed) face in his hands. “Tim, would you stop?”

“Stop what?”

“Trying to set me up with your bloody coworkers!” Martin looks up with a huffed laugh, shakes his head. “God. I’m—I’m fine. I’ve got you, a-and I’m fine on my own. It’s character building, isn’t it? Being vaguely single?”

“I wouldn’t know.”

“Come off it, you haven’t been in a serious relationship since—”

“Don’t you dare say her name.”

Martin rolls his eyes. “She’s not Voldemort. Besides, don’t you still get on with her? You went to the wedding last June, right?”

Tim pouts. “C’mon, let me be a little dramatic.”

“You’re constantly dramatic, and you know it.” Martin smirks a little at Tim’s answering insulted gasp, because the sound itself just proves his point. He gets up from the stool, finally tired of the vague discomfort, and takes a seat in the armchair across from Tim with a hefty sigh. Tim’s pout continues until Martin nudges his work boot against Tim’s scuffed converse under the table, and doesn’t stop until Tim starts grinning like a loon.

“Okay, well. Point of the matter being, he’s cute. In, like, that depressed university professor way.” Tim runs the edge of his finger around the coffee cup, head tilted in thought. “Kind of makes me want to wrap him up in a blanket and feed him soup.”

Martin raises an eyebrow. “Sexy.”

Don’t you say that, that’s why I was attracted to you…”

“Hang on, I don’t—”

“I go for the sad puppy look. It’s a blessing and a curse. But he…he kinda seems like he isn’t ready for that kind of thing, y’know. He’s…bristly.”

Martin folds his arms over his chest, nods sagely. His brow furrows in thought, like it’s his problem and not Tim’s. “…Huh. Well, I mean, he only just started. And you said he was interviewed by Elias. Maybe it’s just nerves?”

Tim frowns a little, takes a thoughtful sip of his drink. The foam sticks to his top lip, and he takes a second to huff and lick it off. “Mm. Maybe. I dunno.”

“Give him some time.” Martin reaches over, and for a moment Tim thinks he’s going to lean across the table, kiss him with those stupid soft lips. But all he does is swipe a little foam from the corner of Tim’s lips with one callused thumb, then leans back and licks it off. And for something so innocent, it should not have Tim’s cheeks going all hot and bothered. Martin seems to think so too, because he keeps talking.

“Sometimes it just--…sometimes it takes people time to open up. Some of us, y’know, we latch onto the first person who’s nice to us, but some people are more…guarded. Scared, sometimes. So, yeah. Give him time to settle in before you decide to…unleash the patented Stoker Charm on him.”

Tim takes a second, watches Martin while he has a spare moment. Half the time Martin stutters like hell, shrinks himself into a corner. But when you get him out of his head, focused on something other than himself, he speaks like a man who’s lived seven lives before, and remembers every moment like it was the last. And finally, Tim smiles.

“I should start paying you for therapy.”

Martin snorts a laugh – literally, snorts before quickly covering his mouth, and then it’s back to normal Martin; shy and restrained, hiding away just in case Tim sees something he doesn’t like. But he doesn’t think he ever will.

* * *

_ “Mister Stoker. _ ”

Sasha’s voice wasn’t particularly loud in the classroom, and honestly, it’s a wonder Tim had heard it all. But the entire class froze in a tapestry of chaos.

You see, Mister Stoker is a very popular teacher. Now, it might be tempting to say that’s because of his looks; of course half the school would have a crush on the young teacher with the charming smile and the strong shoulders. And maybe that’s a part of it. But the main reason is that his teaching style is just chaotic enough to be both informative and hilarious to watch.

For example, today’s class was midway through studying the French Revolution, particularly the storming of the Bastille. So of course, this meant that Tim was up on a small desk, a huge French flag draped across his shoulders like a cape while holding a metre ruler, half impaled on which is a watermelon with the name “Governor de Launay” written on it in block capitals. The class is on its feet, crowded around the desk and cheering like the French peasants they were representing (wonderful acting jobs, honestly, Tim should bring in those little toy Oscars again). Daniel Kitson stood nervously in the corner; not because he didn’t want to be a part of the action, but rather because a plastic gold crown was balanced precariously on his spiky hair, and everyone knows being a royal in revolutionary France wasn’t exactly fun.

The class is silent for a moment, and then Tim can hear the snickers start from both his students and those who are in Sasha’s Computer Science course. They know the long-standing friendship between the two of them; if anyone’s going to rat on Tim to health and safety, it isn’t going to be Sasha James. Tim keeps that signature grin on his face and hops down from the table, cape flowing gracefully behind him in a flash of red, white and blue. Sasha’s seen him in similar states on nights out, this isn’t anything new. The improvised pike is passed to Rebecca Hughes, who stares up at it in shock through cartoonishly round glasses. “’Scuse me, revolutionaries. Can I help you, Miss James?”

“You certainly can. Outside, please. And leave the, uh…cape.”

Tim pouts at her, but Sasha stands firm, arms folded over her jumper dress. He reluctantly unclips the flag from his shoulders and lets it flutter to the ground. He waves off the rest of the snickers and steps through the doorway, which Sasha holds open for him oh-so-politely.

And then the door closes behind them and all pretence flies out the window.

“Jesus Christ, Tim, imagine if Elias had knocked instead of me.” Sasha leans with her back against the thick wooden door, cutting off Tim’s escape route. Sasha has a great poker face, usually; but there’s a little fond smile peeping through the cracks, and that lets Tim know he’s off the hook before he even got hung on it.

“Hey, no problem. Danny didn’t want to be the king anyway.” Tim folds his arms across his chest, sending a dirty look in the direction of Mr. Bouchard’s office. “I reckon he’d look really good under a guillotine.”

“Tim—wait, did you make a guillotine?”

“Of course not. It’s more like a blunt piece of plexiglass—”

Sasha laughs like the sound was punched out of her, shaking her head. In mannerisms, she is quite similar to Martin, except she seems like she was...amplified. Martin seems more acoustic; soft, reserved, and private - like his existence is purely for whoever’s listening to him. But Sasha...Sasha is electric. Not afraid to take up space, make noise. Not brash, but still unapologetic in her existence. Where there are nerves in Martin, there’s an effortless confidence in her. She knows she has the power to own a room when she walks in, but whether she chooses to or not is entirely up to her.

“You’re an idiot.”

Tim sends a wink her way, which she decimates with a roll of her eyes. “You know you love it.”

“Eh, more like I want to see what hijinks you get up to next. It’s like watching reality TV.” Sasha smirks a little, but otherwise ignores Tim’s offended gasp. “Listen, I wanted to talk to you about Jon.”

The comedic wall drops, and Tim straightens up a little. “Jon? What about him?”

One thin eyebrow raises, but other than that Sasha doesn’t question the sudden shift in Tim’s mood. “I’ve got a couple of students in his class, and…well, I’ve been hearing some complaints. Setting 4 page essays for homework each week, university level shit, with references.”

Tim blinks. Jesus. He thought Jon was a little too serious, but he’d never have taken him for a dictator. “Seriously?”

“Seriously.” Sasha glances down the corridor, towards the English department. As though she can see Jon hunched over his desk from here. “They’re not ready for that yet, it’s only October. And I’d talk to him myself, but we’re not really…as close as you two are.”

That…surprises him. Jon and him aren’t actually that close; he just seems to be the only one that keeps up with Tim’s references. Every ball Tim throws, he catches, and tosses back with a snide remark or sarcastic comment. Even with his head buried in a book, half focused. And that doesn’t mean Tim’s being mean to him. Honestly, completely the opposite. Half the time, it’s Tim flirting, in his own funny way. That’s how people flirt, right? Through jokes? Like when Mrs Hickfield asked him what he was doing at the weekend, and he said he was going to spend it throwing pebbles at Jon’s window until he paid attention to him, and then Jon replied that he’d be charging the window cleaning bill to Tim’s classroom, or—well, you get the point.

“I mean, we’re not really friends, but…I can try?” Tim gives a helpless little shrug and an equally helpless smile. But Sasha’s brows shoot up, disappearing behind her perfectly straight fringe.

“Hold on. You’ve been flirting with the man since he stepped foot on campus, and as far as I can tell he’s been flirting back, and you haven’t made a move?” She straightens up a little, only an inch shorter than Tim in her heels, and jabs an accusatory finger into his chest. “Who are you and what have you done with Timothy Stoker?”

“You caught me, I’m actually a much more handsome clone.” Tim falls back onto that roguish grin of his, that signature Stoker Charm, despite the fact that Sasha’s immune to it. “Does that mean you’ll go to dinner with me~?”

Sasha rolls her eyes. “We went to dinner plenty of times, if you’ll recall.”  
And they had, in Sasha’s defence. They’d tried it, the dating thing. But after a month or two they just decided to be friends. Honestly, they fit together better that way. Sasha’s there to pull him back to earth when he gets a little too deep into his own carefully crafted persona, and Tim’s there to remind her to let go every once in a while. It’s a nice balance, and Tim wouldn’t change it for the world.

Tim breathes a laugh. “Pizza on the sofa discounted, we maybe went out once. And, y’know, I think it’d be fun. Maybe not even dinner. Let’s do brunch, pretend to be the Real Housewives of Magnus.”

Sasha smiles, and bless her, she’s got such a lovely smile. People would move mountains for that smile. “You know what? You’re on. But you’re the one buying the mimosas.”

She shifts from the doorway, smooths down the front of her dress; a mental shift into Miss James rather than Sasha. “Now. Back to work. And if you end up storming next door’s classroom like the king’s palace, I will not be responsible for my actions.”

Tim’s eyes go wide. “Ooh, I hadn’t thought of that—”

“Timothy Stoker, I will _end_ you.”

“That a promise?”

Sasha gives him a look, and he finally drops the jokey grin. Fine, she’s in Work Mode, they can joke around more after classes. “ _Go_. If you leave that class alone for much longer they might _actually_ start a revolution.”

And then she’s off down the corridor, long hair swishing behind her back with each sway of her hips, before Tim can even give her a little fake salute.

Alright. He can have a talk with Jon at lunch, and then meet up with Sasha after work. Simple. He can do that.

Can’t he?

There’s a few seconds where Tim stands in the otherwise empty corridor, listening to the far off tap-tap-tap of Sasha’s heels down the stairs. Then he clears his throat, and pushes the door to his classroom back open.

“Alright! Who can tell me what happened after the French people got hold of the gunpowder from The Bastille?”

* * *

When Tim knocks on Jon’s door, he expects Jon to open it. He doesn’t expect to see sixteen-year-old Pip Dartmoor.

Pip looks like the kind of teenager you cross the street to avoid; the shock of bright green hair, spiked up into a faux mohawk that dips low enough to cover half of their forehead. But their eyes give them away; a kind, forest hazel, catching the radioactive green of their hair and glimmering with it like leaves caught in the summer sun. Their eyebrow piercing glints as their brows raise.

“Oh. Mister Stoker. Are you looking for J-…Mister Sims?”

Tim blinks, his brow furrowing at little. The only reason he can think why Pip’s in here instead of the canteen is detention, and Pip might look like a punk, but they’re the biggest goody-two-shoes on the planet.

“…Um. Yeah, yes. Pip, what are you doing here? Shouldn’t you be getting lunch?”

“Oh, I-…I have. We just, uh.” Pip’s quickly turning red, gaze flicking to the worn carpet under their boots. “We…have a study group.”

Tim raises an eyebrow. “A study group. With Mr Sims.”

Pip’s still not looking at him. They never were a good liar; there’s only so many times the dog can eat your homework. “Yeah.”

That’s not what Tim’s here for, lucky for Pip. Tim smirks a little, hands tucking into the pockets of his blazer (only on because it’s _October_ , dammit, it’s bloody cold). “It’s fine, I just need a word. But if Bouchard comes by, let someone else answer the door, alright?”

Pip’s shoulders sag like they’ve just stepped out of a spotlight, and they smile, relieved. “Heh. Yes, Mister Stoker.”

It’s only then that Pip pushes the door open fully, and Tim gets a look at the scene. It’s like a modern remake of The Breakfast Club; There’s about five or six other kids in the room, some sat on the floor with their backs against the wall, some perched on desks, one on the short bank of lockers in the back, legs swinging back and forth. Most are Pip’s friends that Tim’s spied them leaving campus with, or waiting for them outside classes. You can tell by the heavy black eyeliner and Doc Martens. But there are one or two that he doesn’t recognise; a short boy with blonde hair in an extremely oversized cardigan, and a girl with pointed fifties-style glasses and a scarf draped around her shoulders like a blanket. They’re all camped out with their lunches, and the atmosphere is warm and cosy.

On the other end of the room, hunched so far over his desk that he might as well be bent double, is Jonathan Sims. He seems to be completely ignorant of the small gang of lovable misfits camped out in his classroom. His gaze is firmly on the stack of papers in front of him, brow so furrowed that he might be giving himself a migraine. A water bottle sits next to him,full and untouched.

Even when Tim walks up to his desk, Jon doesn’t look up. It’s only when he wraps his fist against the wood that Jon looks up – not just looks up, but almost jumps out of his skin, eyes wide like a rabbit in the headlights. Tim raises his hands in surrender, then raises an eyebrow, and Jon breathes a sigh.

“Jesus, Tim, do you ever knock?”

Tim frowns. Did he not even notice? He’s heard of concentration but jeez. “I…did. Pip let me in.”

Jon blinks, glances over to the group chatting in the corner. Pip gives him a little wave, which he doesn’t return. “Oh. Well, that’s--…fine. What did you want?”

“Oh, nothing much. Just a chat.” Tim tugs over one of the chairs and sits down in one smooth motion, crosses one leg over the other. “It’s got to be a work chat, though. I’m not just here to delight you with my company.”

For once, Jon doesn’t roll his eyes. He sighs, slips off his glasses and rubs the bridge of his nose – it seems Tim was right about that migraine. “Work chat. Right.”

Two things worry Tim immediately; one, that Jon didn’t fire back a sarcastic comment like he always does. It feels…wrong somehow, like a joke that didn’t land. And the second thing is just how much darker the bags under Jon’s eyes have become. By the stack of papers on Jon’s desk and the Styrofoam coffee cups in the wastebin behind his desk, he’s been overworking himself as well as his students. There’s an easy remedy to that, and it’s called “Tim Being The Mum Friend”.

“Jon, no offence, but you look awful. Have you been sleeping alright?”

Jon levels him with a sharp look, dulled by exhaustion. “I have to get up at 7am every day for this job, how do you _think_ I’ve been sleeping?”

“That’s not what I mean and you know it.” Tim leans forward, folds his arm across the desk. “I’ve heard a few students mention your workload, and not only will it make them hate your classes, it’s going to mean you’re stuck behind here doing marking every night. When was the last time you left here before six?”

Jon heaves a sigh – part annoyance, as usual, but part almost tired enough to become a yawn. “They’re going to university, this is the kind of workload they need to expect—”

“Yeah, but they need to _get_ to university first. And it’s not going to be any easier to get their coursework done if they’re also doing a meaningless essay every week, is it?”

“They’re not meaningless—”

“Is it part of their coursework? Exam prep?”

“W-well, no, but—”

“Then it’s not important.”

“ _Tim_.”

Jon snaps, and both of them seem shocked by it. Jon’s tone is a different sharpness than the one Tim’s used to. The little sarcastic comments, the snide remarks, they’re more like needles; little jabs that do no harm, that he almost enjoys. This…this is a razor. If not handled properly, it could cut deep enough that Tim might never recover.

Tim pauses, collects himself. The gravity of the situation settles in his stomach in a tight knot. It makes him feel nauseous.

“This isn’t an attack, Jon. Sasha’s worried. I’m worried. We know that-…We know Gertrude’s standards are a lot to live up to, but you don’t have to be _exactly_ like her. It’d be better if you weren’t, actually, half of her students dropped out every year. You’re smart, everyone knows that. You don’t have to be her. You can just be you, that’s good enough.”

There’s a second where Jon looks at him, and there’s…something different in his eyes. Something years younger, decades maybe. Vulnerable and terrified of stepping out of line; the kid that cries when the teacher tells him off. So desperate to do well that it hurts.

And just like that, it’s gone. Jon slides his glasses back on.

“Right.” Jon nods, slow, almost shell shocked. “…Thank you, Tim.”

It sounds dismissive. And maybe his little pep talk worked, maybe he didn’t. But fuck it, at least he tried. He stands up with a soft grunt of effort. “No problem, boss. Oh, uh, by the way…what’s with the Breakfast Club over there?”

Jon takes a moment to actually register what he says – Christ, he needs to get some sleep. “Oh, um. Pip asked to stay behind one time because--…well. Because. They started coming back here for lunch, and in return they would bring me some actually decent coffee.” He nods in the direction of the wastebin, and his nose wrinkles. “The coffee machines here are god awful. So we came to an arrangement.”

That is so un-Jonathan Sims, and Tim has to bite his lip to stop himself laughing. “So you’re being bribed into giving up your classroom?”

“It’s an _arrangement_ , Tim.”

You know what, Tim’ll leave the poor man to his delusions of control. He puts his hands up, a sign of surrender. “Fine, fine. An _arrangement_. Anyway, I’m starving, so I’ll leave you be. But, uh. Think about what I said, yeah?”

Jon hums his acknowledgement, eyes flicking back to his paper. Tim’s about to turn and leave, clearly having been dismissed, before Jon pipes up again.

“And, um. Thank you. For worrying.”

Tim blinks, and then huffs a laugh of disbelief. “Of course I’d worry. You’re my friend. Anyway, like I said, I’m fucking starving. See you later, yeah?”

And out he goes, that wall coming back up brick by brick, before Jonathan Sims can bulldoze through it again.


	3. Martin

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> so writing this chapter was like wading through quicksand, for some reason. i'm sorry it took so long. hopefully the next chapter will be up a lot quicker! until then, enjoy some martin content.  
> as always, with thanks to my beautiful editor alex, whose comments on my fic's google doc give me so much serotonin.

Martin Blackwood, truth be told, doesn’t actually like coffee. It’s too bitter, and even if he’s got a peculiar caffeine craving one day, it has to be in the form of a coconut milk latte, and with a shot of the toffee nut syrup they only use in the Christmas drinks. So it’s surprising to him that he’s actually quite good at the latte art. At least, he tries to be good at it. If there aren’t any customers about, he’s always the one offering to make a drink for anyone on staff.

And that’s exactly what he’s doing now, using a wooden coffee stirrer to drag the milk foam into little points, when Sasha looks over.

“That’s gonna go cold by the time you’ve finished doing--…well, whatever you’re doing.”

Martin breathes a nervous laugh, finally setting down the little stirrer. “Sorry, heh. It’s an owl.” He nudges the cup over and shifts over, pressed against the coffee machine so Sasha can retrieve her (admittedly, probably lukewarm) coffee.

Sasha’s brows raise, and there’s even a smile on her black-painted lips. “Huh. It actually is. Cute.” And then she’s fishing out the phone that she absolutely shouldn’t have with her on shift and snapping a photo.

“Thanks.”

“How much will you hate me if I pour this over ice?”

Martin considers this for a moment, head tilted to one side. “…Only a little.”

“Awesome, I prefer iced anyway.” Sasha grins, before reaching past Martin’s head to grab a taller glass from the shelf. Martin doesn’t flinch, just inches to one side.

Sasha Jackson was hired around the same time as Martin, but it took a while for them to actually get this comfortable around each other. Sasha was intimidating to look at – a shock of short, neon orange hair and eyeliner sharp enough to kill a man manages to override the fact that she’s about a foot shorter than Martin without her combat boots. But then she speaks, with that soft posh estuary accent that she’s never quite managed to get rid of, and it throws all that intimidation out the window.

The two of them are quite the duo back here, and bring in a lot more customers; Martin tends to lure in the bored pensioners, what with his endless supply of cosy sweaters and tea blend recommendations, whilst Sasha appeals to the student crowd from the college down the road, and a lot of the LGBT folks in the area are pulled in by her Goth Lesbian aura. It does however mean they give out a lot of free drinks; Martin because he’s too nice, and Sasha because she’s a sucker for a cute girl. But the best part is that Sasha and him never stop talking, even after a year of working almost all of their shifts together. They can start the day talking about Oliver’s latest tattoo (usually of something botanical, god, the boy was obsessed) and close up shop talking about Martin’s latest adventure into poetry (and Sasha encouraging him to try and get published). It’s refreshing, and since Martin doesn’t really have much luck in the way of friendship, Sasha knows almost everything about him.

Martin scooches out the way finally so Sasha can reach the ice bucket, and instead leans against the front counter, elbows on the counter and hands tucked under his chin. “Still up for tonight?”

Sasha looks over to him as she digs through the ice bucket, raises one thick, perfectly lined brow. “Um, always. When would I miss poetry night?”

“It’s got a name, you know.”

“Martin, no one ever calls it Poet-tea.”

“Why not? It’s a good pun!”

“Yeah, but it hasn’t got anything to do with tea apart from the fact it’s in a café. And considering how much we drink after, I think that Poet-tea gives off the wrong impression.”

Martin goes to argue, and then quickly closes his mouth again. Well, she has a point, but that’s the best pun he’s come up with so far and the name _has_ to have a pun in. Maybe he should ask Tim.

It’s almost like Sasha read his mind. “Tim’s not come up with anything?”

Martin smirks a little to himself, eyes wandering to the street outside. “Not as far as I know. He did suggest giving it the subtitle ‘Alcohol with a side of poetry’.”

Sasha snorts, finally pouring the coffee into the glass (and ruining Martin’s beautiful owl). “I mean, he’s not wrong.”

“Mm. But I’m pretty sure that, uh, we’re not legally allowed to have alcohol on the premises, so…” Martin shrugs helplessly, and finally pulls out the bar stool he’s smuggled behind the counter. Staying on your feet for eight hours means you take any chance to sit down when you can.

“C’mon. You know Oliver and I won’t rat you out.”

“No, no, I know that, a-and I appreciate it, but…I don’t know. What if someone reported us? I don’t want to get Oli in trouble.”

Sasha makes a noise of reluctant agreement, then leans against the counter beside Martin, back to the door. Martin clears his throat, and when Sasha looks over, he raises his hand and gestures for her to turn back around. They may be friends, but he’s still her supervisor. Sasha playfully rolls her eyes, but turns around anyway, propping her elbows up on the countertop. She stirs her drink absently, trimmed black nails dark against the white paper straw.

“How’s Tim, anyway? He coming tonight?”

Martin frowns a little, glancing over to her. Weird, Tim texted saying that him and Sasha had been hanging out last night. “Uh. He’s, um…he’s fine. He said he’s got some marking to do, but otherwise he’ll be here.”

“Which translates to ‘I don’t want to sit through all the actual poetry and will magically turn up at the pub afterwards to join you all’, right?”

And all prior weirdness is immediately forgotten when Martin chuckles. “Yeah, probably. It’s fine, he’s just not a poetry person. The closest he’ll get to poetry is listening to Cardi B.”

“Uh, Cardi B is great, fuck you.”

“I didn’t say she wasn’t! I’m just more, y’know…”

“You’re a Sufjan Stevens gay, I’m very aware.”

“Uh, Sufjan Stevens _bisexual_ , thank you.” Martin points to the tiny bi flag pinned to his black apron. Tim had bought it for him on a field trip somewhere, and it had kind of just become a staple of his uniform. Sasha holds her hands up, her lips curled into an easy teasing smirk.

“Oh, my apologies, Martin Bisexual Blackwood.”

“That’s still not my middle name.”

“Whatever.” Sasha shakes her head, then takes a long sip of her drink before leaning back with a sigh. It’s late afternoon and they’re having a quiet day. There’s a few customers dotted around the place; an old man with a flatcap reading the newspaper at his usual table, and some students huddled together in a corner booth, whispering together like they were all involved in some elaborate plot. It means they can relax – well, at least until the old fashioned shop-bell by the door rings again. There’s a pause while they both just bask in it, the easy quiet of a cosy café, before the coffee machine whirrs and Martin jumps out of his skin. He flinches, knocking over Sasha’s drink and spilling it all over his shoes, and Sasha snorts a laugh whilst Martin swears and apologises frantically under his breath, fumbling with the kitchen roll to clean up.

And, of course, that’s when the shop door opens.

Both Sasha and Martin freeze in place, eyes darting over to the door at the ringing of the shop bell, and then immediately relax. Stood in the doorway, highlighted by the dregs of the setting sun is Tim, in all his flowery-shirt-wearing glory. He gives them a cheery wave, and Martin waves back.

What makes him pause, though, is the shadow of a man that creeps in behind Tim. The kind of man that, if he tried, could steal the heart of anyone here. The long hair messily tied up in a bun with an elastic band, the itchy green looking jumper that drowns him, the haphazardly stubbled jaw…it all points Martin in one direction. God, he’d thought that Tim had been exaggerating about Jon, but...the man’s attractive. If you ignore the fact that he looks like he just clawed himself out of a recently buried coffin. The bags under Jon’s eyes are almost dark enough to be mistaken for bruises, and he’s so skinny that Martin’s afraid he might trip and snap in two. What was it Tim had said? That he wanted to wrap him in a blanket and feed him soup? Well, Martin _has_ got some tomato and basil in the back he was saving for lunch...

“Martin!” Tim’s voice brings Martin’s attention snapping back to him, and Martin has to choke down the urge to apologise. “How’s things?”

That smile of Tim’s is just so bright and lovely and full of his energy that he feels the little tendrils of anxiety around his heart loosen their grip. He smiles back. And he must look like a lovestruck idiot, because Sasha rolls her eyes and disappears, muttering some excuse about grabbing the mop from the back.

“Hi Tim. You haven’t missed much, it’s been quiet.” Martin finally finishes drying off the counter, and easily chucks the paper towel into the bin. The shadow behind Tim seems to be hugging a file to his chest, and his fingers curl a little tighter around it when Martin looks over to him. The line of Jon’s jaw is hard, intimidating, but the startling green of his eyes is sharp and crystalline, flicking back to the shop door - his escape route. They remind Martin of a deer – beautiful, but flinching, nervous, ready to dash off at the slightest sign of trouble. There’s a pang in Martin’s heart, as Jonathan bloody Sims reaches in and plucks a string without saying a word.

Fuck.

Tim follows his gaze, and if they were alone Martin would roll his eyes at the ensuing smirk. He slings an arm around Jon’s shoulders, and Jon blinks back into reality. “This is Jon, he’s the latest unfortunate soul to join our ranks. I’ve taken it upon myself to show him the decent spots in town.”

Martin raises an eyebrow. “Decent, hm? What a compliment.”

“Eh, it’s okay, I suppose.”

“Tim, you basically live here—”

“What do you fancy, Jon?”

Jon adjusts his glasses and shifts to the side very subtly, just so Tim’s arm slips off his shoulders. Martin sees it now; that hard outer shell Tim’s been trying to break through. The tension in Jon’s shoulders speaks of a man who’s never been relaxed a day in his life, and Martin’s hands itch to help ease it--

Jesus Christ, the man’s been here ten seconds, Martin. Control yourself. Martin straightens up, busies himself by grabbing two cups. Tim always orders the same thing (oat hazelnut latte, he swears it tastes like a Kinder Bueno), so it’s just Jon’s order he’s waiting on.

He’s really not ready for the voice that leaves Jon’s chapped lips. It’s gravely and cutting, bitterly intelligent. The accent’s London, but warm and rich, not quite private school but someone mimicking it very well. It’s the kind of voice you wish could read to you, lull you to sleep and be there when you wake up.

“Martin?”

Martin blinks, and feels his cheeks flush with embarrassment. Or maybe they were flushed from...before. Tim’s looking at him with that infuriating smug grin of his, and Jon looks…more puzzled than anything, because of course he would, a complete stranger is just standing there _gawking_ at him.

“S-sorry, sorry. Just, um…just zoned out a little. What did you want again?”

Jon frowns at him, brow furrowed. “…Just a flat white.”

“Right! Right. Heh. Coming right up, take a seat.”

Jon gives him a simple nod, polite and restrained, and turns away. Martin doesn’t have time to feel too disappointed, because Tim’s smile grows even wider and mouths “told you” at him. Martin flips him off, then quickly tucks his hand in his pocket when Jon turns back halfway to his seat.  
“Tim? Are you coming, or..?”

Tim blinks in what looks like genuine surprise. “Oh! Yeah, I’ll be over in a minute. Just going to have a bit of a catch up with Martin, that’s all.”

Martin’s not sure whether he’s imagining it, but he could swear Jon almost rolled his eyes. “Right. Take your time.”  
By the tone of Jon’s voice, Tim should absolutely not take his time.

Jon retreats to a table by the window and perches uneasily on the cushions, like a stray cat in someone’s apartment. The little pause gives Martin time to consider that last interaction, at least. Has he really given Jon that bad of a first impression? He’d barely even spoken.  
Tim seems just as puzzled, but he seems to dismiss it with a shrug of those strong shoulders, leaning his elbow on the front counter. And there’s that grin again, and Martin has to stop himself from groaning.

“So. That’s Jon.”

Martin’s voice is low, barely even a whisper, but there’s a little bite to it. “A little warning would have been nice, you twat.”

Tim’s grin just grows all the wider. It’s always a mistake, being mean to Tim. He’s such a brat that the slightest change in tone just eggs him on. “I don’t know what you could possibly mean.”

“You didn’t tell me he was so--...so....?” Martin struggles for a second, and then gives in with a sigh and just...gives a vague hand gesture.

“Pretty? Cute? Stunningly handsome in a tired academic sense? I think you’ll recall I _did_ tell you, actually.”

“You told me, you didn’t warn me. Jesus _Christ_.”

Tim raises an eyebrow, and that cheeky grin of his...fades a little. Huh. “What? Yeah, he’s handsome. Give me an hour, fifty quid and a hairbrush and I could make him halfway presentable. What’s the issue?”

Martin sighs, runs a hand back through his hair and feels the tangled curls pull loose. “It’s-- It’s not an issue, it’s just...jesus. All...all that, and then the voice, and...I’m half convinced I’m imagining things.”

To his surprise, Tim snorts a laugh, folds his arms across his chest. “You’re in love with him after a minute? Really?”

Martin splutters. “I’m-- I’m not! I’m not.”  
Tim simply raises an eyebrow, but Martin stands firm. “I’m _not_ , okay? Besides. He doesn’t even seem like he likes me.”

“Again, he’s literally spoken to you once, for less than a minute.” Tim shakes his head helplessly, like he’s dealing with a lost cause. “Give him time. You told me exactly the same thing, right?”

“That’s not-- that doesn’t work here, it’s--”

“Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’m going to delicately ask him if he fancies you.”

“Tim!”

Martin’s whispershout is enough to get Jon to look away from the window, brows furrowed a little in concern. Tim sends a smile his way and a wave, and Jon hesitantly returns both, even if the smile is fleeting and the wave is shy and stilted. Martin thinks it’s nerves from where he’s hidden behind the coffee machine, and frankly that’s adorable.  
He glares at Tim, who seems completely unaffected. He just shrugs, like he can’t help being an _absolute prat_.

“Might want to get to making those coffees, hm? Wouldn’t want to miss anything~.”

And before Martin can reach over the counter and smack him, he’s gone, swanning off in the direction of Jon’s table. Martin sighs and slumps down, lets his forehead hit the counter with a gentle thud. He might just stay like that for the rest of the shift, really. He forgot how humiliating his crushes were. Every time he liked someone, he’d act like they were royalty. And he soon became the court jester, because without fail he’d always make a complete fool of himself. There was Oliver, who was there being cool and perfect when Martin almost closed the panini press on his own hand. There was Rosie in school, who he waved at walking to the bus stop before immediately tripping over the curb, landing flat on his face. And now, there’s Jon.  
Martin absently wonders whether he should just book a GP appointment now. He’s bound to get injured somehow. Injured and, his awful brain helpfully supplies, heartbroken.  
  


* * *

  
Jon doesn’t seem to notice when Martin comes over to deliver their coffees (very carefully, might he add), and honestly acts like he doesn’t exist for the rest of their time in the café. It’s half disappointing, and half a relief; the less someone pays attention to Martin, the less likely they are to see him inevitably screw up. But he does wish he could see those green eyes again, feel the weight of that heavy, burdened gaze on him.

By the time they have to leave, Martin has absolutely fallen in love with Jon. And he hates it. He’s always one to fall fast and hard. Oliver once told him he has a poet’s heart; he has a way to find a beauty in everything, and so when something is completely beautiful it strikes him dumb. And Jon had definitely done that, bloody hell, he could barely get through a “goodbye” without stuttering.

He tells all this to Sasha as they’re cleaning up for the day, as he hefts in one of the heavy metal patio tables from outside. Sasha frowns at him from behind the counter, pulling various bottles of liquor out of the Secret Supply Box and setting them next to the syrups.

“You didn’t even talk to him, right? Like, beyond normal café stuff.”

“…God, I didn’t, did I?” Martin’s face falls, and Sasha has to cover her mouth quickly to muffle a snort of laughter.

“Oh, you poor sod.” Sasha shakes her head. “Alright, didn’t Tim offer to set you two up? Why don’t you just take him up on it? You two aren’t exclusive, right?”

Martin sets the metal table down in the corner of the stage area with a soft grunt of effort, then turns. He bites the inside of his cheek. “I…I dunno. It’s hard to explain, really. Tim’s…well, Tim’s _obviously_ interested in him. And we--…well, we’ve never discussed anything more than the whole ‘friends with benefits’ thing. Maybe this is him, just…moving on, maybe?”

The thought has been lingering in the back of his head all day, icy and hard and sending chills down his spine if he thinks about it too long. Yes, of course, Tim likes him. They’ve been friends for ages, even…to put it delicately, lovers. Martin knows everything about him, down to the contents of his sock drawer (and there is much more than socks in there, trust him). But they’ve never been anything serious. Beyond Tim’s initial reassurance that no, they didn’t have to stop being friends if they slept together, they’d never really…talked about it. And Martin might have been fine with just friends before but…

Sasha gives him a light punch in the shoulder.

“Ow!” Martin looks at her, all wide eyed and hurt, like a baby rabbit. Sasha raises a thoroughly unimpressed brow. “What was that for?”

“You’re thinking too much. This could all be very easily sorted out if you just talked, you know.” Sasha gives his now bruising shoulder (okay, not bruising, he’s being dramatic, but he’s _emotionally_ bruised) a sympathetic pat. “Tim likes you, he really does. More than friends. And have you even considered that maybe he can do that _and_ date other people? Polyamory is a thing, you know.”

“Yeah, I know, I just--…” Martin struggles for a second. For a poet, he really does have a terrible time with words. “I’m just…scared. In case it isn’t that.”

Sasha looks at him, and for a moment he can’t stand her, because the pity in her eyes is so palpable, like a physical touch, that it makes him want to crawl into a corner and cry. He can even feel the tears; the unpleasant, sticky lump at the back of his throat and the heat of fresh tears trying to force themselves from his eyes. He looks away.

“Martin—”

“Don’t, okay? Just…I don’t want to talk about it anymore.”

And he leaves it like that, heading back behind the counter and into the kitchen, before Sasha has a chance to tell him he’s being stupid. Because he knows, of course he knows he’s being stupid. But there’s just that little sliver of doubt, snaking its way through his thoughts and injecting its poisonous whispers into them.

He just needs to push it out. Put it somewhere productive.

Through the kitchen, there’s the office. And in the office, he finds his big denim jacket, with the faux sheepswool collar and the button missing. And in that jacket, he finds his notebook, with the binding barely clinging onto its well-thumbed through pages. He sits in Oliver’s desk chair, it creaking a little under his weight, steals a ballpoint pen and gets to work.  
  


* * *

_it’s the rose glass between us that i’ll shatter_

_punch through, let it tear my knuckles_

_the glass cuts and you laugh_

_and the rose has thorns after all  
_


End file.
